Wonderland's the New(est) High

[Dei]

(I've made a new thread to avoid confusion and clutter.)

Plot;;

Essentially self-explanatory. Your character must be of Wonderland somehow, and you may take spins off of the characters (Madhatter, Doormouse, Queen of Hearts). My character is a spin off of the White Rabbit, who has lost his watch and needs to find it to return to the modern world. I would like for another character from the modern world to have fallen into Wonderland, either somewhat like Alice or transforming into one of the characters from the movie/book.
If the White Rabbit and (hopefully) the other modern character who has fallen into Wonderland, can find the Watch (which the Queen of Hearts has) they can use it to return home.

Expectations;;

You know the rules, right? No godmodding or anything like that,
but as far as content, I would LOVE for joiners to match me - if not in length but a similar, trippy-feel? I would much rather have quality than quantity, though.

Characters;;

Do not post your profiles here, but in the designated area located HERE.

The White Rabbit - Dei
The Queen of Hearts - FallenAngelPrincess
The MadHatter - Pending

[Dei]

Some speakeasy in a jazzical jukebox – some love-romantic running dreams about being something B I G B I G B I G – “we’re gonna hit this town like a hurricane and blow their minds asunder cuz we’re individualistic and original and our Fashion Statements are Fantabulous! – when it all comes back to noise noise noise and sound sound sound and screaming vocalists and abused drums and scratched guitars – “We think you’d do alright, kid. We’d love to sell you.”

Along the riptides, along the ferris-wheel love notes there are circles of songs that lead us away from shore.

And we are trapped,
enrapt.
We are raped by sound.

“…Acid Alice is a doll…"

Thick cigar smoke plumes around rich lips and absorbs into tailored suits and fishnets and leather and bounces off chrome and dimmed strobe lights while thin fingers encircle those slender cigarettes, are dipped, snubbed, and inhaled over and over to make great dis-ease look glamorous. They sit with crossed legs and arms, speak in monotone and toss their heads back when they rarely laugh; there is a low-tone chatter as if there is something to conceal in suggestive remarks and ambiguous slanders. Sounds of sips and clinks from granite countertops to glass stems are all mixed into speakers surround-sounded sounding some melancholy voice kissing a machine microphone to appease the crowds, who on occasion brandish arm trophies and smooth the floor with sensual slow dance.

“…Who walks and talks
and trips to fall
She purrs as she begins to crawl…”

Further on occasion there are ravatic beats up-tempo to the still-life and the lights blink neon-gasmic in pinks and greens and deep dark blues, moaning and groaning to hallucinatory hues when the dancers may jerk and fidget their digits and limbs to beats vibrating their bones and to great surges of energy energizing those of monochromatic. This great surge of previous vigor from a previous song drummed down to “Acid Alice” generated by “Mute Conduits” that was a mere whisper to the amplifiers but was caught and held by the skills of the guitarists and keyboardist and drummer- held it all together and made it something mock cynical with a smoother voice.

“…We untie your buttons
And unzip your shoes
We paint you up
In shades of blues…”

The tones toll in slow, dramatic teases, takes the rhythm as it eases and pleases and gathers eyes to his form; and they stare, and he thinks he’s something great and wonderful.

“…you’re something new to abuse…”

But, who cares?

“…when I run and jump and fly, I
crash
don’t burn don’t hurt don’t die…”
(just a small sing-a-long for neglected back-up singers)

Who cares about brown hair dyed black and combed to cover the right side of sickly pale facial features? Who cares about the red tie, the black sleeveless shirt stating in white block letters “Don’t die! You’ll be dead if you do!”, the studded belt with a red heart buckle hanging loose over baggy black pants stitched with white skulls and fires? Who even cares?

“…We love your hate
We laugh your cries
We pull the lights
Right over your eyes
We love the space between your thighs…”

This figure threading fingers- in black and white striped fingerless gloves, of course –through tossed hair had no bearing of meaning; he had no ideas of lovesick sadness to push emotion into his voice straining for just such a thing. Every fiber of his near gothically-grunged indie style and murdered makeup- black mascara smoothed around eyes, red eyeliner exaggerating intensity, white powder and blush coloring tan cheeks –read in intricate lengths his apparent cliché.

“…We push to smother
On white velour
You’re appetizing
On the kitchen floor…”

There is no talent in his vocals, nothing deep and heartfelt in his screams and whispers and shrieks and out-of-tone altos to rough tenors, but the dancers gyrate in explicit movements and the listeners grant him soft smiles when he raises tensed cords to a pitch higher than himself. He pushes apparent fraud in his desperate claims of nonexistent ability hanging loose in illusory atmospheres, but for his style they remark how well the makeup materializes under faint limelight.

“…chaste is something to adore…”
Good God he’s Beautiful when all dressed up.

“…We dance your walk
We’re watching you
But we would stop
If you told us to…”

Even the guitar strapped over his shoulder reduces to bumping against his leg when his fingers cannot count the strings, when he feels the sharp inability and embarrassment of his unknowing. But he looks the part with the unfinished tattoo on his bicep and with the several chains in different shapes hanging from his jeans and with the typically atypical style of silver charm bracelets up his forearms and the childish bunni ears drooping across his forehead. That’s the importance, yes?

He looks trendy!
He looks emotive!
He looks SCENE!

He is fantastical.

“…Because Acid Alice you’re just Doll
who can’t walk or talk
but stripes to stall
You cry as you begin to crawl.”

And the cliché bows, gaining a few claps and applause but none too much ‘cuz these hip cats won’t rebel to just anything. An hour break for the band; the amplifiers and DJs keeping their absence bearable and time for the pendulums of resonance to stop ricocheting sound in their heads.

Exit left, come to backstage.

Coughing into his clenched fist, the soloist realizes how horribly his vocals vocalized and when sighting the refreshment table’s gifts of bottled water, glasses, and soda cans set atop the scratched metal surface, he calculates a better remedy. He ignores what his peer performers are doing- they aren’t important, he’s the one selling this, dammit! –and meanders to steps leading to openly pink, neurotic air of luxurious smokes.

“Gimme somethin’ sweet, barkeep. I gotta shake off these blues.”
The reply to a question of what is desired from the bartender wiping his hands clean behind a countertop who replies, “Kid, this’ll knock your socks off. It’s new and improved,” and it’s better than E and it’ll show you things you dun wanna see...

Aidyn is seated on a swivel stool, careful to not smear makeup by resting his chin on the palm of his hand; such a soft palm, almost as if he’s never worked a day in his life. Breath fogs into the glass filled with sweetness, a sigh of something as his eyes roll around to new arrivals to the bartender’s haven. Eager lips down a few more sips before a clack- wooden counter to glass –insinuates a step towards the beginning of his drunkenness. The back of his hand moves to remove remainders of sweets from his mouth only to realize he’s smeared himself into a nice clown smile drooping towards his chin.

“Dammit.” He tries in vain to wipe the smears from his skin when he notices how large his hands are, how quickly the countertop is sizing itself to miniature stature, how the unimportant people reach symbolic measurements and carry themselves to ant-dancers, small and worthless and mindless hive-minds… “Damnn… Damnn…” He murmers, blinking the macropsia to split-second micropsia and he is a small, small unimportant thing tumbling down and down and down right through the black and white checkered floor and there is a splash. He gasps and flails and feels the sickness sinking in as the narrow tunnel compresses his lungs to force him to breathe; he opens his mouth to scream but all that mud and water and rust rushes past his lips into the open instrument of an empty body; no soul, no thought, no wondering or meaning or life or love and no calm no sleep no answer and no chance.

He is filled with such a yearn to be filled that he doesn’t think about what he takes in.
How does one become so empty? Who takes it out of you?
His eyes open to gaze at the fogged rippling of sur-reality, thrusting himself upward with kicking feet to cough and sputter out whatever caused such a hallucination. Weary limbs doggy-paddle to the inviting land that he clings to, pulls himself out with and lays on to catch his breath…

Oh, wait.
Is that grass?

There are skies as far as there are clouds, caught in the edges of leaves whispering against each other of the gnarled, aged trees; bent, weathered, sewn and worked into the earth. “What is that?”
The boy blinks and sighs, swearing to hear tiny, sweet voices.

“It’s, it’s a Bunni!”
“Ah! Ah! Get it out!”

Alarmed, he struggles up and whips about to see the owners of these words, but only comes upon the sight of-
“We are FLOWERS, don’t eat US, Bunni! We do not taste good!”

“WHAT THE FU –” Wide-eyed, he catches “rodent” and “fiend” and “murderer” but he doesn’t mind all that so much as these things talking to him. “Hey, hey, I’m not a… a ‘Bunni’. I just have these ears on… See?” He sinks to admit this might be real, and suggests an end to the fight by proving his humanity, but as he tugs at the white, fluffy ears, they do not respond except for his, “OW, ow… Umm…” Fingers fumble for the head band, find none, and then search for the human ears that have likewise vanished.

He is confused.
He is angry.
He is delirious.

Panic!

“Okay! Okay! You Flowers are going to tell me what’s going on here or, or I’ll eat each and every one of you!”

[Stitches]

Memories of home rose like the sun, melting his heart. Just how did he get to this distorted destination? Did he take a wrong turn? He remembered a family, with young wife and small child. He recalled many jubilant emotions- pride, joy, ..love. But, these faded to grey, leaving a vast desert wasteland. This place had plenty of creatures, but no comforts. It was peculiar indeed. His head felt like lead upon his shoulders as his eyes scanned left and right.

"I can honestly say- I feel slightly mad,
These feelings I have can only be bad.
Am I dreaming, or did I die?
Could this be the place above the sky?

The humanity that remained intact slithered instantaneously through his fingertips as if the sand in an hourglass. Tumbling like a landslide into the earth, turning foundations into ashes, broken shards of their former self. Seconds merged into days, days into hours, hours into weeks. Time set up a labyrinth in Vincent's mind packed to the brim full of twists, sharp turns and sudden dead ends. Then, from out of the blue; seconds, minutes and hours were snared within a raging tide and swept maliciously away on the vast ocean of eternity. Here become there and there was nowhere in particular.

He walked briskly through the teeming grass, ears ringing with incoherent melodies. He returned to the foot of the silver-pool of water where he had already been stood once today. Glancing over the swaying reeds Vincent stood strong, delighted by his own reflection. The corners of his mouth dissolved, leaving in their wake a wide smile-- more a grin to be quite accurate. For a second he stood dumbfounded, mesmerized by the shining white teeth. Then cold fear ensued. He did not recognise the person in the watery mirror. Yet the stranger seemed to know Vincent well enough to shadow his every movement.

"Could it be gift or curse?
This beautiful, rhythmatic verse.
The person reflected, cannot be me.
Who is this stranger I can see?"

Falling to his knees, he snared his head within his hands. The drumming in his hazy mind combined with the broken tune, creating a chorus. From the surrounds of the dead-end night many a tainted voice rejoiced in a snide tune--

"Cheshire Cat, king of beasts,
On madness he shalt feast.
Prey listen to our jaunty sound,
Here comes the king, homeward bound."

Who was this 'Cheshire Cat'? Vincent surely had not heard of him before. He wondered if this beastly creature was one to be feared.

"From where did this ears appear?
Just what exactly is happening here?
I want to go home, so far away,
I fear for my sanity, if I stay."

Crooked hands trembled. Vincent swiftly pulled himself away from the reflective surface. Now was not the time to run into the open arms of madness. No, now was the time to take the fragments of sanity and coherent thinking that remained and piece them together. The jig-saw when pieced together would hopefully reveal a mellow yellow-brick road away from this realm. There certainly was no place like home.